


Touch, Don't Look

by slothprincess



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Dry Humping, Lapdance, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-15 20:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11238492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothprincess/pseuds/slothprincess
Summary: Jazz discovers Prowl has past experience as an exotic dancer and begs him to demonstrate.





	Touch, Don't Look

“So, can you do it?”

“I most certainly will not!” 

“But could ya? I mean if you _really_ wanted to,” Jazz asked, swinging his pedes against the metal desk. Prowl frowned, gesturing at him to stop.

“I suppose so. It’s not like I could delete the subroutines for it. However,” he said, thoughtfully, pointing an accusatory glare at Jazz, “if you’re trying to use that fact to wheedle me into something, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

“Okay, okay!” Jazz groaned, waving his hands placatingly, “But what’s it like? C’mon give a mech some deets.”

Prowl sighed, shelving his work, “I imagine very similar to your undercover subroutines. It subspaces and minimizes a fair majority of personal and emotional data, as well as tweaking the remaining modules to better suit mission ops.”

Jazz giggled, striking the desk again with a heavy pede,“Is that what you’re calling it? _Mission ops_?” Prowl rolled his optics.

“You’re not pleading your case very well here, Jazz.”

“It’s just funny to think of you as, as—”  he paused, searching for the right word.

“As, what, sexual?” Prowl snorted, turning back to his stack of forms, unimpressed. Already the hefty pile was beginning to teeter perilously. 

Jazz's jaw dropped. And for once, he was thankful of the towering collection, hiding his bewilderment. Prowl wasn’t an unattractive mech by any means. The cop possessed a glossy finish spread over the traditional Praxian features, an exotic look that stood apart from most Autobots. In fact, Jazz had caught his fair share of them discreetly checking out the Praxian’s aft, and even more drooling over his voluptuous bumper. Himself shamefully included. No, it was rather Prowl had a tendency to close himself off. He was a hard mech to know. But, slag it all, if Jazz didn’t want to keep trying.

 “How ‘bout if I promise to fill out all my reports on time for the next 3 cycles?” 

“No.”

“I promise not to tell anyone.” Jazz wasn’t above begging. It had never been an optimal strategy agaisnt Prowl, but it occasionally, if Prowl was in one of his rare good moods, paid off. 

“Goodbye, Jazz.”

“I’ll be your best friend.”

“You already are. Now go. I’ll see you in the canteen later.” Prowl replied, voice already distant, distracted by next week’s inventory report and scheduling roster.

_Frag, he was losing him. He couldn’t allow this conversation to peter out now. Frag, frag, frag. He’d have to bring out the big guns._

 “I’’ve got some information I’ve been, uh, squirrelin’ away for a rainy day, ‘might interest you," Jazz said in what he hoped at least sounded like feigned nonchalance.>

Prowl shot up so fast, he nearly upended his desk. “What information?,” he demanded, “Jazz, if you have undisclosed information—”

“It’s nothin’ important, hardly vital. Just something personal I think would interest _you_.” Jazz grinned in relief. His risk had paid off big time. As official Autobot Tactician (and unofficial control freak)  Prowl consumed more data than energon. Teasing that there was something, somewhere, he didn’t know drove him to glitches. Sure, taking advantage of it was beyond low, ‘specially since his so-called information was nominal at best. But he comforted himself with the fact that if anyone could handle a little morally grey bargaining, it was Prowl. The bot had dirt on more Cybertronians than Primus himself. Wasn’t afraid to use it either.

Pushing his misgivings aside, Jazz leant over the desk, correcting an up-ended desk caddy. “I know a bot who _totally_ digs another bot,” he whispered, conspiratorially.

Prowl leaned in, face almost flush to Jazz’s, optics wide, “Who?”

Common knowledge stated Prowl’s calculations depended on innumerable factors, even the smallest change of energon consumed before a battle could factor into the difference between a rousing victory or crushing defeat at the Decepticons pedes. The daily drama of who was making out with who, which parties were in disagreement, who was engaged, Prowl catalogued them all. To say he was an avid follower of gossip was a massive understatement. 

Prowl knew it all, and he knew it before sometimes even the parties themselves. It was suspected Prowl had even started some of the more beneficial gossip himself. Though, there was never any proof, of course.

Jazz clapped his hands together. _Time to rein in the deal._ “I”ll tell you, if you show me.”

Prowl recoiled, wings hiking up into an angry V, before he slumped back deep in thought. Jazz could practically see the wheels spinning, as Prowl’s high-end programs sorted through pros and cons, tagging beneficial options, while downgrading less acceptable ones. He almost felt bad. He’d seen Prowl sit like this for hours lost in the numbers, and hoped he hadn’t introduced another unsolvable query. Ratchet would kill him if he had to perform another forced reboot because Jazz had distracted him again.

He shifted in his chair, preparing for a wait. If he was lucky, Prowl would only be triple-checking his findings. He sunk lower into the unyielding metal, drilling a tempo with his digits, trying to ignore the building nausea in his tanks.

What felt like Orns later Prowl’s optics refocussed, sharp and scathing, “Very well. I accept your bargain,” Jazz’s head whipped up, as Prowl continued, “We will meet in my quarters in precisely 12 hundred orns. You will not tell anyone. You will not film, record, or stream the events occurring in my room to anyone, under any circumstance. Nor will you allude to it in any form. If anyone, and I mean anyone, from Prime to the lowest janitorial bot, finds out…” Prowl trailed off.

Finishing the sentence was unnecessary. They both knew what happened to bots that displeased Prowl. Pit, Jazz _had_ happened to bots that displeased Prowl. 

Throat dry, he nodded numbly, “Yes, Prowl." Jazz gulped, feeling very much like the proverbial turbofox who caught the glitchmouse, and now didn't know what to do with it.

**********

“So, how does this work again?” He asked, sprawling against Prowl’s couch with carefully patented nonchalance. Truth be told, Jazz felt as if his intestinal acid was right ready to eat through his external plating. Sure, he could string up a Decepticon platoon in his sleep. But Prowl was different. A whole ‘nother level.

And right now, he was standing across the room, inspecting Jazz through narrowed optics. Heavy fluorescents gleamed off his armor and a slight flush dotted his face. Belatedly, Jazz noted the half-drunken cube in his hand. It’s contents sloshed precariously, flirting with the glass’s lip, as Prowl stalked over, a predatory gleam in his optics. The acrid smell surrounding him almost knocked Jazz over. High-grade. Very potent high-grade, if Jazz knew his poisons well. His internals churned, as a shock of shame bubbled up.  

Prowl had felt he needed this. Teetotaler Prowl, who always ordered weak, was half-tipsy on what smelled suspiciously like Sunny’s home-brewed high-grade. The stuff was more battery acid than ingestible ingredients.

Despite his drink, Prowl’s voice cut sober and cold, “In exchange for vital information to the Autobot cause—” at this he glared pointedly at Jazz, “I, Prowl, agree to reinstate my exotic dancing subroutines for exactly 30 half-orns. All former affidavits previously mentioned in office will apply. As a reminder they are as…”

_Slag, he really was a grade A gearstick. He needed to put a stop to this. The fact that Prowl had felt the need to drink._

“Look, Prowl, you really don’t have to—” The whirring of systems rebooting interrupted him.

“Just try and enjoy it, Jazz,” Prowl said, his words coming out breathy and light, as buried subroutines powered on. And just like that a switch was turnt.

Prowl stiffened, doubling over as he hit the ground. Jazz winced in sympathy. Starting a subroutine, especially a deep rooted one, always stung like the pits. His own Spec Ops routines packed a particularly powerful punch he’d never gotten used to, even after decaorns of use.

The sound of whirring fans kicking on filled the room. Jazz waited with bated breath, paralyzed. With his usual grace Prowl straightened up.

His optics were half-lidded, wings canted low in a rarely seen gesture of arousal. They fanned out, flittering through the air tracing languid rhythms. It was completely and utterly fascinating, like an Earthian snake charmer lulling him into a trance. 

And, boy, was Jazz glad those fans were on because every inch of him felt like a furnace. He was boiling alive. When Prowl smiled, face breaking into a loose, sloppy smirk, Jazz immediately found himself reaching for the bottle of high-grade. The Prowl he knew was all 90º angles, clean and concise, business-like. This new Prowl standing in his space oozed sensuousness, shoulders relaxed, hips slanted at an erotic angle drawing attention to his generous hips.

With a knowing glance, Prowl stretched, pushing out his voluminous chest, headlights gleaming and perky. When he turned on his strobes, Jazz downed several shots in succession then and there. The high-grade was thick on his tongue as his own fans clicked on. Prowl approached the couch, hips swaying hypnotically, drawing Jazz further and further in. At his dumbstruck expression Prowl laughed, a tinkling, high-pitched laugh, so unlike the Prowl Jazz knows. 

But he can see the similarities too, the haughty stare, the pure confidence. The same, just rearranged. He attempts to stand, to do something, but a servo pushes him back down, caressing his visor, before lacing behind his helm. Swinging one leg up, Prowl straddles his lap, grinding his pelvic plate against Jazz’s. Heat blossoms from the inescapable friction, and Jazz groans, so sure Prowl can feel it, billowing off of him in waves.

The hand caressing Jazz’s face drops and he whines at the lack of contact. He wants to plead with Prowl to continue, to finish what he’s started, but when he sees it’s new location his dentae clamp shut. Prowl is running his servos over his own bumper, in the most blatant display of self-service Jazz had ever seen outside of a porno.

Jazz’s throat dries, he wants nothing more than to touch, to claim. Unsure what to do with them, Jazz lifts his servos. They hang in the air heavy, but he doesn't know, doesn’t want to overstep his boundaries. _Slag, was Prowl the kind of exotic dancer you could touch, could fondle?_ He wants to share, make Prowl feel good as well, but doesn’t want to risk the fallout, can’t afford it.

A particularly enthusiastic hump scrapes his modesty panels, leaving a lengthy gash of black paint. Jazz moans, feeling his spike strain against it’s cover, already weeping and leaking. He bucks up, willing it to stay hidden, but already transfluid is sloshing around within him. Oblivious to his plight, Prowl returns the buck with one of his own.

“C-can I please—” Jazz whimpers, pantomiming towards his panels, now strained and bulging from the effort of holding back, “I need ta,” he gasps fighting back the pleasure, “Can I open it?” The words tumble out.

Prowl freezes, cocking his head in mock consternation, his own plates frozen scarcely an inch over Jazz’s, “I don’t know, Jazz, _can_ you?”

 “Slagger,” Jazz mutters, releasing his spike so fast it slaps Prowl’s thigh. Prowl merely lowers himself down, smearing Jazz’s transfluid against his panels in large swathes with each gyration.

“What about you then?” Jazz asks in between pumps, gesturing towards Prowl’s still closed ports.

Prowl’s head lulls back, and Jazz is glad to note his breathing is as labored as his own, “I’m an—aahhh exo—TIC dancer, Jazz,” his optics roll and he hiccups as Jazz hits a sweet spot, “not aaah a prostitute. A little heavy grinding is as faAAr as I go-OH.” 

Jazz tilts his head, “Fair enough. But what about this?” He launches forward, dragging Prowl into a heavy kiss. At first Prowl freezes and Jazz worries he’s finally gone too far, but then Prowl surges forward meeting each fervent touch with one of his own, denta nipping.

Their lap dance session takes on a horizontal turn as they paw at each other, and before Jazz knows it they’re tangled together a mess of limbs and pedes on Prowl’s beaten-up sofa. The last thing Jazz thinks before overload hits is he never want this to end. He offlines to the rhythmic pulsations of Prowl's lights beating a red, blue symphony against the dark.

********

A not so light smack reverberated against Jazz’s visor, as he tumbled to the floor, awake and unbalanced. The floor smells of cleaner and a moment passes before he realizes he's not passed out in his own bedroom, hung over from a few too many Engerittas.

 “Primus! What the slag, Prowl?” Jazz scowled, dusting himself off as he found himself looking up into Prowl’s serious visage, frown firmly back in place. He towered over Jazz, a wafting cup of warmed-over energon cradled in his servos. 

“Give me the information, Jazz.”

“What?” Jazz asked, stupidly. Everything still felt fuzzy and vague. 

Prowl tisked, setting the cube down sternly, “The information. Who likes who. I already have my tactical program running, I just need to fill in the data.”

Ooh. Oh, yeah. Jazz snorted, collapsing into a fit of hysterics. 

“Jazz,” Prowl warned, voice promising pain, “I’m not here to play games.”

“I know, I know!” He fought back another undignified giggle, “It’s just: You!”

“Me?” Prowl’s wings pitched high in surprise, stirring up a weak breeze. Several papers fluttered to the ground, but neither noticed.

“I really like,” Jazz paused, throat dry, “You.”

Prowl stared dumbstruck, his face twisting into offended indignation, “Well, obviously! Cosmos could see it, and he’s been 10,000 KM away in deep space for the last 13 solar cycles. I thought you had something _useful!_ ”

“What do you mean something useful!?!” Jazz countered, launching off the floor in fury, “I laid my spark out to you and you—you…Wait, you knew? You knew I liked you?” He felt lost, anger draining from him in confusion.

“Of course, I knew, you glitched spawn of Unicron," Prowl roared, "Why else in the Pits would I even entertain showing you that—that display?” He sound affronted.

Jazz drew a deep breath, this changed everything, “Does that mean you like me too?”

Prowl huffed, chevron glowing in irritation, as he plopped down next to him, readjusting a pillow “Well, obviously.”

“But, all that energon you were drinking? Before?” Jazz asked, warmth spreading through his circuits. They liked each other.

Prowl blinked, “It was just a glass, Jazz.”

“But you _never_ drink!” Jazz cried, feeling suddenly foolish. Everything was topsy turvy. Prowl drank...and liked him?

“I was just about to give my subordinate a lap dance, " Prowl shook his head, ruefully "I think a little liquid courage was acceptable.”

“Huh, “ Jazz  shrugged, settling in, and throwing an arm around Prowl, “So, uh, if we both like each other,” Prowl nodded curtly, prompting him to continue, “Could we maybe do that again sometime? I hate to break it to you, but, you give one hell of a lap dance.”

“Absolutely not!”

“Not even for my forge day?” 

“Don’t push your luck, Jazz.”

 


End file.
